First
by therewithasmile
Summary: Maker, he's never made love before.


_First._

 **.**

The first thing he notices isn't her body. It isn't her gracious curves, the swell of her breast, nor the warmth that flood his cheeks as he gets a good look at her. It's in her eyes: bright, intuitive, flickering with warmth and _love,_ love so strong it nearly steals his breath away. Thin, battleworn arms reach up around him, a strong yet oddly meek grasp pulling his head downward. Their lips collide but it isn't painful, instead he can feel every thought as she presses against him again and again. _I love you, I love you, I love you._ Maker, he hopes he's even remotely able to return his ever mounting feelings for the woman underneath him.

Cullen didn't just desire her, he _loved_ her; so much more than he'd ever before in his life, so much so that it nearly scared him.

And every kiss, every touch, every caress only reaffirms it in his brain. The strength of his feelings overwhelms him, if only because there used to be so much else that occupied the same space. In this very moment, he could forget it all, could forget his straining sanity, the bouts of self-loathing; right here, right now, all he knew was that he loved this woman, and he was content to live in that moment no shorter than forever.

Her head tilts back as he shifts upward, a small creak in his desk underneath them lost as his hand skims across the planes of her body. Over her breast, skating through the soft, taut skin of her stomach, before leaving small circles along her cream thighs. All the while his mouth never leaves her, even as she tilts her chin upward to fight a moan that eventually breaks through her lips. Cullen takes the opportunity to slip his tongue into her mouth, all the while her hands slip from his neck, her nails leaving trails of fire, then ice, along his shoulderblades. He shifts once, his knee propping upwards and pressing very deliberately against her slickness. She gasps at the motion, before he feels a slow grind against the warmth on his lower thigh.

He pulls back for a moment, just to see her closed eyes, her flushed cheeks, her lips flushed red. He gently lifts his knee once more, pressing deliberately into her center, and he watches with something short of wonder as she arches her back, a sound not unlike a mewl caressing the air. He leaves a trail of kisses down her neck, nibbling and sucking at her tender flesh, every movement earning yet another gasp, a groan, a pained cry of his name.

This woman loves him. _This woman loves him._

He can scarcely believe it - the kisses, the giddiness, for all it could've been, it could've been a lie. He is no virgin, as he suspects she isn't either, but this was all new. The slow tantalizing moans he drew from her, the gentle way her fingers tousled into his hair as he approached the swell of a breast, the way his name cascaded from her lips - like honey, all of this is new to him.

Maker, he's never _made love_ before.

Cullen isn't even sure what he's doing - all his thought is blanketed in a thick, pleasurable haze. His only confirmation that he's doing anything _right_ are the laboured pants that she blows past her ear, her voice strained as she chokes a gasp as he gently, so very gently, takes a small nibble. He traces his tongue around once, experimentally, and he can feel her heated skin flush as her back shifts once more, as if to allow him better access.

Her hands are at his hair again, not quite a massage but it might as well have been, grabbing and twisting his hair in her slim fingers, all the more encouragement to continue. Cullen could've devoted hours at her breasts, but he feels her fingers slip from her hair and head south, ahead of him. Not annoyance, but an odd playfulness fuels his emotions; he catches her fingers before they can reach their destination. In a surprisingly easy motion, he twists their hands together before firmly pinning them close to her ear. Her sharp intake of breath punctuates the motion, and something akin to a frustrated groan is barely contained as he continues his ministrations. That is, until he allows one finger to skim up from their place at her thigh.

Sudden nervousness prickles at his arm, slows his actions. While he had seen it all before, this time, it was all new. All different. All _real_. It means something, and suddenly, his arousal halts. He pulls back once more, only having to angle his face upward to catch her eyes. But she does more than that; even with one hand pinned she manages to lift her head, just enough to whisper three words: _I love you._

It's the only motivation he needs. The words swell in his ears, the gentle lilt of her Ostwick accent making his head spin, a dizzying combination of adoration, admiration, and arousal. His fingers feel as if they were lit ablaze, each digit punctuated by stinging flames as he moves, with surprising awareness, towards the folds of her sex. Even without direct contact, he can feel heat coming off her in waves; she twitches in anticipation, her hips rolling and flexing to meet even one of his appendages. Something like a plea comes from her lips, feather light and barely voiced.

He gives one, long, experimental stroke.

The result is immediate. Her hips roll and another moan comes from her lips. The action itself was fast, yet he can feel the trace of wetness against his fingernail. Her one free hand clamps onto his wrist, the plea alive on her mouth once more. _Please_ , she says again, though the most he can hear are the way the 'p' pops and the 's' hisses in her voice. He rolls off her, just enough that she shudders once without his warmth against her, and shudders again as he gives another tug against the folds of her warmth.

He strokes once, twice, and again, this time with growing confidence. Each time he dips his finger in deeper, deeper still, until her hips buck and she groans in frustration, her pelvis thrusting up with each ministration. He can't help it, she's so beautiful, _so beautiful,_ as he feels her her hand clench against his own when he dares to dip lower. So beautiful as her back arches and her eyelids flutter open, her annoyance easily masked by her arousal.

He sinks a digit into her core. She wreaks at the intrusion, squirming to adjust to the new sensation in her body. She is overwhelmingly hot, and yet it is not uncomfortable, and when he gives a pump, her body reacts accordingly, amazingly, as she nearly sighs in contentment. He adds another finger, giving her another moment before he begins to pump once more. He doesn't know how to feel, what to think; when her eyes pop open, deep in her gaze lies milky pleasure. Her body responds receptively to his work, straining to reach every pump. His name tumbles carelessly from her mouth - and he finds himself wanting more, wanting so much more. His fingers hook and he scrapes against sensitive flesh as he pulls his fingers out, earning yet another groan before he thrusts them back in.

And he can't help himself, he disentangles his hand from hers and shifts himself off the desk, careful not to withdraw his fingers from her core. He carefully adjusts himself against the deep mahogany wood, her legs dangling off the end like a ragdoll, her abdomen flexing as she takes another shuddering breath. From this position, he can _see_ the coating of her cum on his fingers, a pool of excess gathering in the curve of his palm.

He pulls his fingers from inside her and she shudders violently. And then, in preparation for what happens next, he gently rests his tongue against the skin of his digits. Maker, even just the taste of her has him straining. She watches him, eyes widening, her mouth perhaps forming words to protest - but whatever she has to say is quickly swallowed, as he inclines his head and gives the length of her core one, good lick.

Her head falls back and her gasp of _Cullen_ is almost too loud, but he hardly cares now. Instead, he licks again once more, the feeling of her warmth and the taste of her cum on his mouth. She squeaks in response and shifts, her folds rubbing against his nose before she settles, shaking ever so slightly. His newly freed hands pry her open, exposing her, before he thrusts his tongue deeply, warmth enveloping his mouth. She squirms and thrashes, her hands a wild frenzy as they grasp his hair, before withdrawing once more. Meanwhile he licks, lapping carefully at her most sensitive areas, a finger reaching to rub the throbbing nub of her clit.

he can feel her tensing, her orgasm building, soon even her mouth fails her as what _was_ his name is now simply gasps, murmurs of _please_ and _more_ before he feels her clench. A cry comes from her lips and he manages to open his eyes to catch her back arching, a beautiful, beautiful figure, before coming down with shallow pants. His attention suddenly diverts back to his own need, his own growing need, that had definitely been on his mind. But now that she was adequately satisfied, now it's the only thing that occupies his mind. Her's, too, as he stands and her eyes fly to his manhood.

She lifts pelvis, just a little, a small bit of cum leaking from her entrance. She opens her arms, too, in a surprisingly warm gesture, her eyes still lidded with arousal, but it was entirely inviting. Cullen climbs over her, resting one forearm against her ear, the pressure in his manhood nearly unbearable. He rubs against her once to alleviate the pressure as much as he could, and he can't help the moan as he feels her slick wetness glide against the length of his cock. It feels too good; he does it once more, and this time she also whines, using her voice to communicate her need.

He reaches down with one hand and firmly grasps his straining erection, pressing it against her core. His name tumbles from her mouth once more, sloppily, proof of how much she needs this. He eases in at first, but the warmth and the slickness and the _sensation_ is too much to bear. He sinks into her, all at once, and yet always so careful to not hurt her, to allow her to adjust.

They stay like that for a few moments, her hair spilling off the end of the table as she arches her back. He can't help his own satisfied groan. She fit around him perfectly, warm, encompassing, _full._ Full physically, full emotionally, and it's not for the sake of pleasure that he begins to move. But more because he couldn't bear to think of anything else - because he wanted her to _understand_ just how much she meant to him - because he fully intends to make love to her the best he could.

His first thrusts are met with nothing but wonder in her own eyes, nothing but adoration and love and everything he's slowly getting used to recognizing didn't solely come from him. For she loves him as much as he loves her, and soon every thrust is met with one of her own, meeting perfectly in the middle, warm and satisfying. She groans in satisfaction as their sexes meet once more, and he can't help but grind a couple times before pulling back once more. Nothing in their pace is hurried, only drawn-out moans and the sounds of their joined pants a true metronome to their rhythm. Cullen's sure he can remain on his desk forever, Inquisition-be-damned, to make love to the one he loved until he ceased breathing.

But the mounting tension is too much to ignore, for every thrust he feels himself cantering towards his climax, every moan that blows to his ear yet another push towards release. The sounds do nothing for his fluttering heart, his growing pressure in his pelvis, and as he thrusts once more, he swears his voice is about to crack - her's _does,_ as she groans his name once more. _Cullen, Cullen, Cullen -_

He can't help it. His eyes swim with stars and his teeth numb, his hands shake as they grasp her arms, her hair, and he feels the sweet pleasure of release. Wave after wave, he even _trembles_ with the strength of his orgasm, and she's shuddering underneath him, her own gasps of ecstasy voiceless. Her warmth surrounds him, _really_ surrounds him, and her hands helplessly grasp around his back, pulling him closer, closer, even as he slips out of her, spent.

They remain on the desk for maybe a minute or two, before he straightens. She follows after him, her normally carefully constrained hair falling into helpless, loose waves that cascade down her back. His hand tangles into hers, an invitation - he glances at the desk, where glass is shattered on the floor and the contents were askew, but that could wait until tomorrow.

Many things could wait until tomorrow, he determines, as he gently leads the Inquisitor to the ladder leading to his bed. After all, he'd already decided he'd make love to her all night.

Cullen Rutherford is a man of his word.


End file.
